Dear
by SensibleNonsense
Summary: A collection of letters between Soul and his family during his time at Shibusen. Implied SoulxMaka.
1. Mail

**"Dear"**

_A collection of letters between Soul and his family during his time at Shibusen._

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><p>Chapter One:<p>

_Mail_

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><p>"<em>I keep the wolf from the door, but he calls me up—<em>

_ Calls me on the phone, tells me all the ways that he's gonna_

_ Mess me up."_

_ -Radiohead, _A Wolf At The Door

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><p>"Soul, you've got a letter!" Maka calls as she enters the little apartment, shoving the open the door with a foot. A neat little rectangle is clasped between her lips and a tiny, concentrated crease between her brows as she juggles the fleet of white plastic grocery bags.<p>

A groan, and a mussed white head appears over the back of the couch. Red eyes narrow at her suspiciously before widening in alarm.

"Oi, oi, what do you think you're doing with my mail?" gripes the scythe, springing into action (over the back of the couch) and snatching the letter from the girl's mouth as she dumps the bags on the counter, tins of cat food spilling out.

"I didn't have enough hands, _obviously_," scolds his new meister, planting fists on narrow hips. "If you'd come to the store with me like I'd asked you to, it wouldn't have been a problem!" But she's too curious to really be mad.

"Who are the Evans, anyway?" she asks, peering over his shoulder.

He moves away from her so sharply it's almost a flinch. "No one important," he mutters, curling his shoulders into their customary hunch. He shoves his free hand into his pocket and leaves his partner standing miffed and alone in the center of the room.

He closes the door to his room and plops down at the desk. The envelope is plain enough, except for the handwriting, which looks as though it could belong to someone from the a previous century. A tiny snake of dread has curled itself in his belly.

He sits there for a moment, worrying the edges, wondering if he shouldn't just throw it in the trash now and avoid the whole mess. But that seems cowardly. Being cowardly isn't cool.

Taking a deep breath, he slides his thumb under the sealing. He unfolds and smoothes the crackling page, and reads—

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>An story idea I've been toying with for a long time. We'll see how this goes... :)


	2. Dear Soul

Chapter Two

"Dear Soul"

_A letter to Soul from His Mother, upon the second week of his entrance to Shibusen Academy._

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><p>Dear Soul,<p>

I presume you are doing well, since we have not heard otherwise.

Tell me about your partner—meister is the word, is it not? Who are his parents? What instrument does he play? Or rather, does he sing?

Please remember not to get too attached to any friends you might make there. This is all still strictly on a trial basis.

Remember to practice every day; your phrasing, especially on your brother's newest composition, remains wanting.

Love,

Mother

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Just a heads up, I'm going to be writing Soul's family with as stiff and prim a voice as this for the whole story. I'm sure the "real" Evans aren't as exaggerated as this, but it's damn fun. And having fun...is fun. :O


	3. Meister

**AN:** I felt mean giving you guys such a piddly chapter two after a week, so have a complementary chapter, on the house. I am a Kind and Merciful God. :|

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><p><span>Chapter Three<span>

"Meister"

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><p>Dear Mother,<p>

My partner's name is Maka Albarn, and I'm 90% sure she's a girl.

Her father is the current Death Scythe, Spirit Albarn. Her mom's not in the picture, but apparently she was some kind of amazing meister before she divorced him and ran halfway across the globe. Sounds like a shit way to treat your kid, if you ask me. But what do I know? Maka still worships her.

Maka herself is a pain in the ass. Everything about her is flat except her moods.

She couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. When we dance, she leaves my feet bruised. She doesn't have any taste in music.

But she likes the way I play.

I think you would hate her.

Love,

Soul


	4. Dear Son

**AN:** Fear me, for I have returned.

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><p><span>Chapter Four<span>

"Dear Son"

_A letter to Soul from His Father, received one week before chirstmas, three months after his enrolment to Shibusen._

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><p>Dear Son,<p>

Several of our friends have asked after you and, having not known myself, I supposed I must write and find out from you myself.

Are you doing well in your studies? Though I admit I'm not quite sure what those include, I'm sure you'll remember to represent our name admirably.

Will you be coming home for the holidays? I'm sure you'll have many charming schoolyard anecdotes with which to entertain our guests at dinners.

Remember to practice,

Regards,

Father


	5. Holidays

Chapter Five

"Holidays"

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><p>Dear Father,<p>

Actually, I'm doing fairly shit in my studies. I got an F on my last exam, which is actually kind of admirable compared to this one kid, BlackStar, who got a score in the negatives. Not really sure how he managed. Wrote his own question and answered it wrong? I have to get to know this kid.

But that's only the bookwork side of things. Maka's good at it—the best, actually. But I'm here for the "extracurricular activities."

It's not cool to brag, but we sort of kick ass, Maka and I. We actually made (and promptly fucked up) our ninety-nine-and-one souls last month. It takes most kids at least a year; we did it in two months.

Not that you understand what any of that means. Explaining is a pain, and I think it's fair to say we've got some communication problems that won't help. So if your friends ask you about my "studies" again, just tell them that it's like being on a sports team, but with demon weapons instead of hoops and balls, and our only real team uniform is broken bones and bruises and blood, I guess, and the loosing side gets their souls eaten. Actually, definitely say that—it sounds kind of badass.

Anyway, no—I'm not coming home for the holidays. You've probably already guessed. You can send me money instead of a present. I'll buy a motorcycle. I will not wear a helmet, and I'll give loose women rides on the back (and probably Maka, too).

Love,

Soul

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Timeline's a bit slippery out of artistic license. Deal with it! (Too much Korra, someone?) Fun fact!: In the sentence "We actually made our ninety-nine-and-one souls last month," I originally typo-ed it "we actually made out [last month]." My fingers itched to keep it. ;)


	6. Six Months

Chapter 6

"Six Months"

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><p>Dear Soul,<p>

I presume you are in good health, as you've neither written nor called to say otherwise, and furthermore that you have made some healthy acquaintances. Wes still speaks fondly of the friends he made in his school days, though that was at the Conservatory, whereas the academic path you've undertaken is rather beyond my understanding, and the people still more, I am sure. Still, I should be quite upset to learn that you've spent these past six months brooding in your room.

I hope you will conclude this little rebellion soon, and return home to more serious matters. If you stay much longer I'm afraid your musical talent will suffer irreparably, and will never return to where it once was, let alone to something worthy of a concert hall.

Love,

Mother

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> FYI, there will be thirteen chapters in all.


	7. Friends

Chapter Seven

"Friends"

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><p>Dear Mother,<p>

You know, funny thing, but I'm holding up pretty well for a guy who recently got his veins pumped with Black Blood. Never heard of it before? Me neither. Professor Stein said it works a bit like an STD, but you'll have to invent your own explaination for that, because I was too buy getting the hell out of there to listen to his. And anyway, I contracted it after being split in half by some weird boy/girl's demon sword—not by doing the cat.

I don't know what you're worried about—a cool guy like me doesn't have problems making friends. For starters, there's this blue-haired wanna-be god (I mentioned him before—the one with failing grades) who comes from a family of assassins, and a pair of street thugs from NYC. A girl whose brother turned into a demon and tried to kill her last month. A shinigami-in-training with untreated OCD.

And then there's Maka. A lot of the time I can't stand to be in the same room with her, but I think she's the best friend I've ever had.

I'm not leaving.

Soul

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><p><strong>AN<strong>: I've always thought of black blood as suspiciously similar to an STD. I'm slightly exploding with conspiracy-theory-esque thoughts on the subject. Don't ask me about it unless you want to have your ear talked-off.

On a similar thread, you have no idea how many sex jokes I had to keep myself from writing. But Soul wouldn't—at least, not about Maka—so I couldn't. Not cool.


	8. One Year, Four Months

Chapter Eight:

"One Year, Four Months"

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><p>Dear Son,<p>

We thought to write to you on the anniversary, but we knew the date would mean as little to you as it does to us. I suppose question now turns from _when_ you will come home to _if_ you will come home. I rather suspect we already know the answer.

Please remember, however, to consider the full consequences of that decision. You know already that your mother and I are prepared to cut you off financially should you continue further into the coarse "profession" of soul-eating. Now know that we will strip you of the Evans name, and all the valuable social connections, prestige, and yes—responsibilities—that come with it.

You are our son. This is, therefore, not a difficult ultimatum to give, but not one of any celebration or satisfaction.

Choose wisely,

Father

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Took me a while to straighten this one out...


	9. Home

Chapter Nine:

"Home"

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><p>Dear Father,<p>

A funny thing about family: you and Mother always taught me it was something you're born into—which I guess you are, if it's technical. But there are families other than ours, ones that are also worth belonging to too. And if you're lucky like I am, you get to choose to be a part of them.

Maybe it's an easy choice for you. I'm man enough to admit it isn't for me. I still feel, the mad electricity when I play. The hunger. Like I could create worlds, bring down buildings. And I crave the stage, too. A full house. That power.

I mean, right now I'm only playing for an audience of one, and Maka doesn't even know a clef from a grace note. None of them do. But I'm beginning to realize that's not really important. I don't really know what Kid sees in a flawlessly symmetrical house, or what Tsubaki finds at the bottom of a "perfect" cup of hot tea, and I don't think I could care about Maka any more if I understood what in the hell mitosis is. Point is, I'd be giving up more than I'd be gaining if I went back.

I never much liked the name Evans, anyway. Not really my style—not "cool" enough. My friends have a name for me I like better.

(Oh,

And I forgot to mention one thing.

I already am home.)

See you in hell,

SOUL "EATER"

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> This is my headcannon for how Soul got the "eater" tagged onto his name. (Because I just can't see this prestigious Evans family naming their fancy kid Soul Eater…) I think the black-room-jazz-imp did once called him "Soul Eater Evans" once in full, but you could still read it like Soul "Eater" Evans. Case closed.


	10. Dear Brother

**AN**: I was totally surprised by the number of reviews I've gotten in the past few days for the latest update…Y'all kick ass! I've started school again and I'm doing Nanowrimo (for original stuff) in November, so I want to get all of this out while I can. Stick with me!

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><p><span>Chapter 10<span>:

"Dear Brother"

_A letter to Soul from his brother, several years after entering Shibusen._

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><p>Dear Brother,<p>

How are you? It's been a while.

You're happy, I suppose; Mother and Father must have given up on you by now. That was what you wanted all along, wasn't it?

Forgive me, but I have to ask—are you still playing? I hope you are. Even if it's just for yourself.

So are you some great scythe legend now? You must be a real lady-killer with "cool" job like that…though I hope not literally.

I suppose you aren't an Evans anymore (were you ever?), so what should I call you now? Mother and Father have disinherited you, if the rumors are correct. (They're too proud to admit it themselves.) For now, I think I'll still call you little brother, though.

Tell me how you are, if you can. And when you write the memoirs of all your heroic deeds, dedicate it to me, will you?

Write soon.

Your brother,

Wes


	11. Paper Words

**AN: **Alright, guys, this is when shit starts gettin' real! :) (But it's short; I feel mean.)

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><p><span>Chapter Eleven<span>:

"Paper Words"

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><p>Dear Wes,<p>

It's been a long time.

Yeah, I still play. For my friends sometimes. For Maka, mostly. By which I mean for me, I guess.

Being given up on wasn't what I wanted, whatever you think you know. But I think it was my fault in the end, mostly.

I hate getting these letters. Do you know that I haven't—


	12. Dear

Chapter Twelve:

"Dear"

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><p>There's a knock on the unlocked door, and Soul sits bolt upright in at his desk.<p>

"Soul?" Maka's voice from behind the too-thin barrier of wood. "I finally threw Papa out. Can I come in?"

Soul sets down the pen and crumples up the paper he's been writing on. He throws it into the waste basket that he'll empty at the end of the week; the same place he's put all of the letters he's written and received over the past two years.

But the one from his brother he shoves under a stack of books, not quite ready to part with it.

"Yeah, come in," Soul calls to the door. "Took you long enough."

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><p><strong>AN<strong>: Yep. One more chapter to go...


	13. Not Paper Words

**AN:** I stayed up late to finish this last chapter-figured you all deserved a break-and a conclusion!-after chapter 11's cliff-hanger.

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><p><span>Chapter 13<span>:

"Not Paper Words"

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><p>But apparently he doesn't hide the letter well enough.<p>

"Who are the Evans, anyway?" she asks, one hand still on the doorknob, the other holding a soda.

He leans back in the chair, surveying her coolly from the cushion of his arms. It's been years since she walked into the apartment with that first letter and the same question. He wonders if the things he'd written about her then are still true. She's still liable to put him in a wheelchair, still worships the mom that abandoned her, still takes top score on every test.

(And kicks his ass when he deserves it.)

(And keeps him from flying to pieces when the allure of madness starts to creep back in.)

But she isn't quite so flat and hard and skinny as she'd once been. He's dragged her out to play in the sun with their friends when she'd rather be reading a book indoors, and in return she's built him a stage quite unlike any other that has ever existed in the meister-weapon world. One that he chose to step onto. One not built beneath his feet.

"Ah, you know; I've already told you—my family. Every one a musical genius, every child a protégée for the last 100 years. The goddamn musical dynasty, basically."

She waves her hand impatiently, undaunted by this in a way only Maka can be. "I mean, what are they like? Your mother, your father…your brother…" She tacks this last one on hesitantly. It's a touchy subject, easy to get shut down on.

Instead, Soul shrugs. "Pretty much like you'd expect. Over-involved where they shouldn't be and completely aloof from where a kid would need them. Wes is a bit different—a bit, but not enough…and worse and some ways…" His mouth sets in a grim line. "Anyway, that's about all they are," he finishes.

Maka crinkles her nose, sets down her can of soda and falls onto the bed behind him. Soul swivels his chair lazily to face her, slightly exasperated at how quickly she always makes herself at home in his room.

"Families…they're weird things, aren't they?" muses Maka, staring at the ceiling.

Soul grunts and props his feet up on the bed beside her. "Like some kind of weird experiment that keeps going wrong but no one bothers to fix it." He takes a swig of her soda.

"I wonder if Professor Stein is involved," Maka giggles. Then,

"I suppose we're a family, aren't we, Soul?"

He struggles to swallow. But—

"Tsubaki and BlackStar, Liz and Patti and Kid, I mean. All of us," she continues, and he can breathe again.

They're silent for a few minutes. A warm breeze wanders in from the cracked window. School will start again in a few weeks officially, even if it never really seems to be out for them with all their "extracurriculars".

From where she's lying, Maka extends her hand to Soul. A smile quirks at his mouth. Their hands slap together in a practiced, firm grip, and they pull each other to a stand in one fluid motion. For a moment, they're standing so close that they exchange a breath.

Rattled, Soul throws an arm roughly around his partner's thin shoulders. She grins and winds hers around his waist in a way that really doesn't help.

"Come on, the other halves of the family have dinner plans."

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Does that sound too much like the Mafia? That sounds too much like the Mafia. Ggggh. That was totally artistic and on purpose, okay? Cool. Bedtime.

Thanks for sticking with me and my story, everyone! I've had so much fun with this one, in large part because of your guys' continuing enthusiastic response to it. In gratitude, I will name my first born child after you all! Feel the love.


End file.
